I turn my head in time to see my ex-fiancé saunter through the upscale fitness center entrance. He wears a charcoal gray suit that fits him a little too perfectly.
Joseph W. King. The guy I’ve known since we were fourteen.
Back then, he was gawky. Geeky.Now?He looks like a G.I. Joe action figure come to life. Square jaw, thick dark hair, muscles that look sculpted rather than earned.
Handsome, yes. But in a way that feels synthetic. Like manufactured by Mattel.
I watch him flash his new, perfect veneers at the receptionist, who practically melts behind her desk. He doesn’t just smile. He deploys charm like a weapon.
It’s hard to reconcile this "Wall Street Wolf" with the man who left me at the altar two months ago.
I know the truth behind the suit. I know about the drinking. He keeps it together 99% of the time. Yet once in a blue moon, he binges. And when he binges, he gets mean.
Like the night before our wedding.
I heard through the grapevine that his best man got him drunk, poured poison in his ear about how he could “do better” than a schoolteacher.
Meaning me. And Joseph, drunk and arrogant, must have believed him.
Clearly, standing me up at our wedding proved we were over.
But if that’s the case, why did he buy a membership to my club?
Must be because he wants to mark territory. To irk me. To remind me that he won and I lost.
He scans the room, and his eyes land on me. He offers a small, tight wave. A smirk that says,See? I’m doing just fine.
He looks so smug. So secure. So safe.
Suddenly, the idea of a chaotic, dangerous weekend with Rio the rockstar doesn’t seem like a burden.
It seems like a weapon.
I stand abruptly, gathering my things with newfound determination.
Las Vegas. Here I come.
CHAPTER 4
MADDIE
The Las Vegas airport hits me with sensory overload the moment Snorty and I step off the plane.
Rows of slot machines line every scrap of wall space, their screens flashing cherries, gold bars, and cartoon diamonds like they’re trying to hypnotize arriving passengers.
“Which carousel is ours?” I ask Snorty. He lets forth a skeptical grunt that perfectly matches my mood.
I spot my faded blue suitcase on the conveyor belt and lunge for it before someone else mistakes it for theirs.
“Excuse me. Miss Madison Smith?”
I turn to find a tall man in a crisp black suit. His name tag reads Max.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m your driver to the Las Palmas Hotel.” He takes my suitcase with a courteous nod. “Right this way.”
We step outside into a surprisingly cool desert breeze. Sharper than New York’s spring air. Yet clean in a way that wakes me up.
